From The Anals Of The House Of Fox . . .

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August Update

The trouble with keeping a blog is I can never think of anything interesting to write. My life is pretty tedious. Exciting events or newsworthy happenings are few and far between. So, what can I write about?

Um.

How about that amazing dream I had, where the German bombers turned into star ships, and there was this almighty aerial battle, and Chewbacca was flying a spitfire armed with laser cannons? Pretty cool stuff, but unlikely to help shift erotic books. Note to self; don’t mention the war.

I am currently writing a brutal horror novel, in the hopes I can widen my appeal and perhaps have something on the market that people may even admit to owning. After bashing out five thousand words a day for the past week, I have now hit the wall, and it’s getting difficult. I’m finding myself doing anything other than getting on with the book; watering the plants, tidying my sock drawer, playing stupid Facebook games. Why the hell do you think I’m actually bothering to write this crappy blog? It’s a distraction; nothing more. Got to be disciplined; got to get on with it. This one must not turn out like the last four attempts, false starts all of them.

Right. Blog done. What now? Should I commit to a thousand words, or go count the loose change in the penny jar? Hmm.

Homemade Bogie Wine

It’s a question I am frequently asked; is it possible to make your own wine from bogies?

In these days of austerity, every penny counts, so the idea of a never-ending supply of free booze is one we all yearn for. With this in mind, the good news is yes, you can make your own wine from bogies, and in this article, I’m going to teach you how.

Selecting your Bogies

Bogies, or boogers as our American cousins wrongly call them, are an ideal ingredient for fermentation. Rich in minerals and vitamins, and with a zesty, slightly salty bouquet, bogies can be used as a substitute for grapes to begin brewing your own plonk almost immediately. A good, daily rummage up the schnozz can yield anything up to three or four grams, but if you’re serious about making wine then you’re going to have be more ambitious with your harvest. Fortunately, most people don’t know the value of their nasal cargo, and foolishly throw their bogies in the bin. So why not get your friends and family to contribute their bogies to your effort? You can always offer them a bottle of the finished product in return for their help.

If you don’t have a wide social circle, then another possibility is to go bogie foraging in and around your local area. Most strangers will happily let you shove your finger up their nostrils to dig out a nugget or two, but make sure you obtain permission from the nose owner first. And while all bogies can be utilised in winemaking, you should try to avoid those coming from coke addicts or coal miners.

Pubes

Once you have collected your bogies, you will need to get your hands on a couple of other ingredients. First of all, pubes. Pubes are what will give the wine its body and colour; black pubes produce a heavy, dark drink, while blonde pubes will make for a lighter, more refreshing beverage. Ginger pubes should be avoided, as they lead to instability during the latter stages of the brew, although more experienced winemakers swear they use nothing else.

Yeast

Winemaking shops will charge you a small fortune for yeast, but why fork out hard earned cash when you have a readymade yeast factory in the shape of your wife’s tuppence? With a few lifestyle changes, she’ll soon be pumping out enough of the stuff to keep you in free booze until the end of your days.

Get her into some tight-fitting underwear, insist she use a harshly perfumed soap and hide all the yoghurt, and within a week you’ll be ready to harvest your yeast. When your wife’s complaining and scratching reaches unbearable proportions, take a teaspoon and scrape up any grey discharge from in and around her flappy bits. Leave what you collect to dry in a warm, airy place such as a windowsill, then simply pop it in the fridge until you’re ready to use it.

Method

Now for the exciting part. Place your bogies into a bucket and pour in a gallon of water, then get your feet in there and squish those bogies into a mush. Some recipes recommend washing your feet first, but personally I find this step unnecessary. Once the bogies have reached the consistency of snot, throw in a handful of pubes and pitch in the yeast. Now place your concoction in a cupboard and forget about it for a while.

If, after a week, your wine is foaming and giving off an ungodly stench, then you’re on the right tracks. Leave to ferment for another three months, then pour into old Lidl own brand cola bottles. After a further six months your creation should be ready to sample. Invite a few friends around and watch the look on their faces when you tell them this wine cost you not one penny.

Taken from the forthcoming book ‘Getting Shitfaced on a Budget’, by SJ Smith.

Disclaimer; SJ Smith accepts no responsibility for acute poisoning or death resulting from this recipe. Brewers of this beverage do so at their own risk.

Where's My Pants Version 2.0

I am faced with a crisis of epic proportions. As I sit typing these words, I am literally pant-less.

Upon perfecting the prototype Self-Cleaning underpants, I gave the rest of my underwear away; stuck it all in one of those charity bags they keep shoving through the door. My pants are probably now being worn by some street urchin in Bangladesh. I never thought I’d miss them, not with my Perma-Pants in place.

But after the devious Sebastian Minky stole my Perma-Pants, I am now faced with the hideous prospect of going commando for the rest of my days. I cannot allow this to happen. I have to get my pants back.

Before I go into any detail about my devious pant-retrieval plan, I feel a brief history lesson is in order; a little background information on those damned Minky Brothers, just to make sure you fully understand the vastness of the task I am facing.

Minky Bros Ltd began life in the early eighteen-hundreds, founded by Tobias and Ebenezer, a couple of hardcore Christian fundamentalists who held the belief that cleanliness was right up there with Godliness. They sold handmade soap, guaranteed to wash away sin from even the dirtiest parts of your body, from a market stall in their hometown of Cob. Success came quickly; from the stall they graduated to a shop, to two shops to three. By eighteen-fifty they were exporting soap all over the world, keeping the British Empire clean.

Their fame and reputation grew. As Queen Victoria bestowed upon them a Royal Warrant, she was heard to confide to the Archbishop of Canterbury, “Ever since I started using Minky Bros Cunt Soap, my giblets have been as clean as a whistle”.

At the advent of the new century, Minky Bros Ltd set out to realise its vision of an entirely clean and fragrant world, and work began on the building of a new town. Cleanville, as it became known, housed the Minky Bros workforce and their families; by day the menfolk toiled in the factory, while the women scrubbed every nook and cranny. A nineteen-twenty gazetteer said of Cleanville, ‘the pavements are so spotless you could eat your dinner off them’.  

To this day, Minky Bros remains a leading manufacturer of soap and laundry detergent. They boast a bestselling range of intimate hygiene products, with such famous household brands as Pube Shampoo, Foaming Cock Wash and Minge Polish under their umbrella. It is said that every home in Britain has at least one Minky Bros product lurking somewhere within its cupboards.

Of course, the owners are multi-millionaires, and of course, they don’t like the idea of some upstart like me threatening their business interests with my Self-Cleaning underpants. But I will not be cowed; I will strike back at these oligarchs and take back what is rightfully mine.

Pant-Wars starts here.

Taken to the Cleaners

I should have known things were going too Goddamn well.

Last night, round about seven, there was a knock on my door. I go answer and there stands this incredibly beautiful woman; mid-twenties, brown hair, dressed in a somewhat revealing top and a short, floppy skirt. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she says in this lovely, cultured voice, “but are you SJ Smith, the writer?”

I get this huge, puffed up sensation in my ego. “Yes. Yes, I am,” I tell her, with what hopefully comes off as a seductive grin.

“Oh my God.” She goes all coy, puts a hand over her mouth. “I hope you don’t think I’m acting weird, but I wondered if you’d mind signing this for me?” She pulls a well-thumbed copy of House of Fox from her bag. “It’s, like, my favourite book ever.”

Somebody has actually read my novel. I can scarcely believe it. “Of course I’ll sign it,” I tell her. “Come on in while I find a pen.”

Feeling like the cat that got the cream, I lead her into the kitchen, where she makes herself at home, taking a seat on a tall stool and crossing her lovely, tanned legs. My eyes are almost out on stalks, but I attempt to play it cool. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure. I’ll have whatever you’re having.” She gazes at me and licks her lips.

So I hand her a can of Lidl own brand lager, which she opens and sups without a moment’s hesitation. My God, she may be my dream woman; drop dead gorgeous and a cheap date. I rattle around in the drawer and locate a pen. “Who shall I make it out to?” I ask, opening the book at the title page.

“To your biggest fan.” She slides off the stool and slinks round the counter to stand right in front of me. The scent of her perfume sends my head giddy. “Close your eyes,” she commands.

I do as she says. Next thing, her hands are adroitly undoing my belt, and off come my trousers. Then my underpants slide down my legs, and I’m thinking I’m the luckiest guy in the world right about now.

“Open your eyes.” I look up, and she’s pointing a gun in my face. “Now sit down, and no sudden moves.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. She handcuffs me to a stool, then paces up and down the kitchen. She’s twirling my underpants around her finger and talking into a cell phone. “Yes, I’ve got them in my hand,” she’s saying. “It was just as easy as you said it would be. He’s clearly an idiot. He actually believed I’d read his crappy book.”

“You rotten cow bag.” I can see this now for what it is; she isn’t my biggest fan at all. This was nothing more than a duplicitous ruse, played out to get her hands on my prototype self-cleaning underpants.

The front door opens and closes, and two guys let themselves into my house. The first is a bruiser; built like a brick shithouse with a scowl that would wilt lettuce. The second is a little more refined; expensive clothes, salt and pepper hair and a huge, gold sovereign ring. I recognise him immediately; he’s none other than Sebastian Minky, boss of the Minky Brothers Corporation, the biggest washing power manufacturers this side of the border.

“Now,” he says, getting right in my face. “What’s all this bullshit I’m hearing about self-cleaning underpants?”

The bruiser goes off and wrecks my underpant research laboratory, smashing up my equipment, trashing my notes and deleting everything from my hard drives. Meanwhile, Minky spells out to me in no uncertain terms that my career as an underwear maker is over. “Be a good boy, and we won’t have to visit you again. Next time, the damage will be far more serious. Understand?” He slaps me lightly on the cheek, tucks my prototype Perma-Pants into his pocket, then the three of them take their leave.

Damn. First the monkeys, now the Minkys. Why does my life have to be so complicated?

My Exciting News

Yes, finally I can break the news I’ve been dying to share for the past few weeks. A milestone has been achieved, a hurdle leapt, a landmark created. The fruits of my labour are swollen with sweet, sweet juice, as the day of reckoning arrives. That’s right, people, I can finally announce that I, SJ Smith, have at long last perfected my design for the world’s first ever pair of self-cleaning underpants.

The ramifications of this new invention are huge. Imagine never having to change your undies again. Imagine no longer having to make that dreaded, once a decade trip to the market to buy new boxers. With the SJ Smith Patent Perma-Pant, you’ll save a fortune on washing machine costs and your laundry hamper will remain pleasing empty.

You can sleep in them, eat in them, go to work in them. You can use them for sporting activities or social occasions. And the whole time you’ll feel confident and fresh, thanks to the unique micro-technology incorporated into every pair of Perma-Pants.

The road to this victorious day has not always been an easy one. Early prototype pants were beset with such niggles as pube wilt and bell scratchery, but with the teething problems ironed out, the Mark III Perma-Pant performs to the very highest standards of crotch safety. In recent tests, nine out of ten gentlemen said they would recommend Perma-Pants to a friend.

Perma-Pants will be available in a range of sizes and colours, from all good underwear stockists. A new dawn in male intimate hygiene is upon us; throw away your washing powder and soap, for they will hence forth be redundant. The Self-Cleaning revolution is here.

The Story of the Lobster and the Crab

Nothing much happening in the world of smut-comedy writing today, so I’m going to pass on this cautionary tale, as told to me by a wise man.

The Story of the Lobster and the Crab

The red lobster stood beside a large, algae covered rock, enjoying the feel of a warm current swooshing up the back of its shell. Beside it, the crab scuttled side to side, noisily tip-tapping its claws against the gravel bed.

“Will you chill the fuck out?” the lobster snapped, tired of the crab’s incessant pacing.

“I’m bored,” the crab replied. “Why don’t we go and do something fun?”

“Look, it’s my day off and I’m taking it easy,” the lobster chided. “Sometimes it’s okay to just put your feet up and do nothing.”

“You’re a boring old fart, you know that?” The crab clicked its pincers and ran around the lobster in a circle.

“So go find something to do. It’s not my job to entertain you.” The lobster rolled its eyes and turned its back on the crab.

“Fine.” The crab ducked behind the rock and fetched out the toy remote controlled car it got for its birthday.

“Oh, come on. Not that fucking thing again.” The lobster despaired as the tiny, red car raced around between its legs.

“You told me to entertain myself,” the crab pouted.

“Right. That’s it.” The lobster snatched the remote control out of the crab’s pincer and threw it against the rock.

“You son of a bitch,” the crab screamed.

“Next time it’ll be your fucking legs I break.” The lobster waved its mighty claw in the crab’s face. The crab ran away and sulked, while the lobster went back to enjoying its peace and quiet.

Before long, the crab grew bored again, and it picked up the remote control to see if it still worked. Unfortunately, the red car lay lifeless, its tiny wheels refusing to turn. Heartbroken, the crab took the back off the device and fiddled with the wires to see if it could be fixed. It put everything back together and switched it on. Heart pounding, it pushed the lever to make the car go. The car refused to move, but strangely, the lobster jolted forward six inches.

“What the fuck?” the lobster yelled.

The crab grinned as it realised that somehow the remote’s radio wavelengths were being picked up by the lobster’s deedlybompers. “Check this shit out,” it cried as it made the lobster do doughnuts and a funky breakdance.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” the lobster screamed.

Just at that moment, a fat, high-flying, New York banker stuck his pudgy face up against the glass. “I want that one,” he exclaimed, pointing at the animated, dancing lobster.

“Very good, sir.” The stuffy maître d took the lobster from the tank and tossed it in a pot of boiling water. The crab – who never had any fucking business being in a lobster tank in the first place – wound up getting slung out the window and eaten by seagulls.

The End

There. I think we can all learn something from that.